Highlander The Series: IQ
by John Hama
Summary: Duncan MacLeod faces off against the world's smartest Immortal. In a contest of Brains (and a little brawn) Vs. Brawn (and a little brains) can the Highlander emerge the victor?
1. Chapter 1

Note: I do not own Highlander, it's characters, situations, etc. No money is being made from this excursion - only a sense of fun.

Summary: Duncan faces off against the world's smartest Immortal. In a battle of Brains (with a little brawn) Vs. Brawn (with a little brains) can the Highlander emerge the victor?

"_Steel will not bake bread for your table, write poetry or birth babies – but it has its uses."_  
>-Hamza el Kahir (600A.D. to 1653A.D.), as translated from the Farsi<p>

_Prologue – 1927, the North Atlantic_

Objects in motion. The shock shot up the length of the man's sword arm as metal struck metal. He quickly stepped back a few paces and shifted, somewhat clumsily, into a relaxed defensive stance on the rain-soaked foredeck of the steamship. The icy downpour, the wind, the pitching of the deck, the half-light of a thickly veiled moon – all these things were complications to the Game. He prepared to receive his rival's charge. At two and a half meters he began shifting his center of weight forward to feint a thrust; halfway into it he allowed his knees to buckle as he threw his upper body into a hard spin, angling his sabre's cutting edge to strike at the other's legs. If he could take her mobility the battle would be over. Metal struck metal. The man hesitated – somehow he'd been anticipated. Daniel, for this was his name, had studied the sword for more than sixty years and in that time had taken eight Quickenings, but this slight Portuguese _senhorita_ was turning out to be his first real challenge. Dark and agile, the woman's eyes betrayed nothing – neither thought nor intent nor even feeling as she regarded her larger opponent.

A flash of steel and his left shoulder was opened. A peal of rolling thunder hid his yelp of pain and he scrambled back across the slick oak, wrestling with shades of panic. "I can do this", he thought fiercely to himself. "It's a matter of focus – I _must_ focus! There is no pain. In an hour's time I'll have warm brandy in me, an unscarred shoulder and a new story to thrill Marie". He set his teeth and advanced toward his opponent. She took second blood almost immediately with a cunning _riposte_ that took advantage of his bold, overextended thrust. He felt metal bite into his ribs. This was followed by a savage boot that sent him to ground. Daniel rolled with the fall and the pitch of the deck, eager to put some distance between him and the swordswoman. When he came out of the roll he found the mate of the boot that had struck him standing on his blade – the point of the other's sword describing a casual circle an inch from his Adam's apple.

"You're done Mr. Roundtree – well done", the woman shouted over the fury of the storm, her dark hair threatening to loose itself from it's practical, tightly wound knot in the violent play of the winds.

It would be another forty two years before the Kubler-Ross model would codify the five stages of grief experienced by people faced with their own mortality or that of a loved one. Daniel, being a pragmatist, skipped lightly over denial and anger, flirted briefly with depression then moved right on to acceptance, the very notion of bargaining made nonsensical by the nature of the Game. He raised his eyes to those of his killer and spoke, clear and strong. "In my cabin, amongst my clothes is an envelope addressed to a woman in Islington. You'll see to it that she receives it?" A moment of sober and courtly gravity passed between the two figures. Objects at rest.

"As you wish", she replied at last. With no more to be said the victor drew her sword arm back and followed through in a clean, quick arc. Old flesh, tendon and bone gave way to older steel and Daniel watched, briefly, as the world spun and spun – the cool caress of the deck against his cheek the last thing he knew. The woman, one Salera Braga of Lisbon and many other places besides, quickly resheathed her sword and lowered her frame into a wide, stable kneeling position on the deck. A pearlescent glow suffused Daniel's remains and they began to rise several inches into the troubled air. Salera tightly gripped her sword in its scabbard as if for support and drew in a deep breath. "I have won. I will continue to win. I have won. I will continue to win," she repeated quietly to herself, as though reciting a mantra. "Games are won by intellect – _my_ intellect…_my_ intellect".

The caressing glow left the body and seemed to evaporate into the turbulent air. The remains fell back to the deck with a thump and the winds died. Salera glanced about anxiously at the suddenly eerie tableau surrounding her. The rain still fell but the air was utterly still, the clouds halted in their progress, the sea calm except for the drops. In the silence the pattering of the rain seemed impossibly loud. Sweat and rainwater trickled down her throat as she felt the hair on the back of her neck, on her head, even on her arms begin to prickle and rise with a static energy that she knew was only prologue. A kind of awe colored by intense curiosity gripped her as she noticed that all of the clouds in the general vicinity were now slowly moving to a point directly above her head. In what seemed an achingly suspended moment between heartbeats she set her eyes on the horizon…and exhaled.

"…_my_ intellect".

The bolt of raw, searing energy and peal of thunder occurred simultaneously. Salera was caught up in a roiling dynamo of ecstasy, pain and nameless sensation that somehow brought with it the strength, the skill, the sum experience of the warrior who had fallen. The rigging of the vessel was awash in a gaudy display of St. Elmo's fire and the starboard bow anchor welded itself to its housing. The focus of all these energies screamed, laughed and wept all at the same time.

She would remain laughing long after the storm resumed its normal course.

_Chapter One – 1996, Seacouver, WA_

Duncan MacLeod was having a banner day. While shaving that morning he'd cut himself just under the jaw line – an unlikely lapse for a four hundred year old blade master, certainly, but even Immortals make mistakes. The nick was both healed and forgotten within forty seconds. This was not the source of the good humor that kept his reflection smiling back at him as he toweled off. After donning a coarsely knit turtleneck and trench coat against the November chill he'd set out on a pleasant, early morning stroll across town to a favored eatery for breakfast. There'd been a storm during the night and the air was crisp and had the scent of rain about it. A handful of gulls cried out a greeting to Duncan as they rode early morning updrafts against a cobalt sky. The beauty of the morning was not what put the extra bounce in his step. At the Elbow Room Diner Duncan ordered two eggs scrambled with diced red pepper, some fresh fruit and a large coffee – sugar, no cream. Simple fare for a palate schooled in the cuisine of a hundred cultures but it was pleasant and filling. The meal was not the cause of Duncan's cheer.

On his way back home he detoured over to Joe's Place, a blues-fueled eating and drinking establishment operated by Duncan's good friend Joe Dawson who, it happened, owed the Immortal twenty dollars from a sporting bet. The bar was closed at this hour but the odds were about 50/50 that Joe would be there, giving his old Gibson Hummingbird a workout. It was Duncan's lucky day – twenty minutes later and twenty dollars richer he continued his walk home.

Nope.

Splashing merrily through puddles, Duncan's smile broadened as his thoughts flashed back to Joe's impassioned greeting.

"We was robbed!" he'd hollered upon seeing the Scotsman enter his bar. Joe was a young forty-seven, with graying hair and beard, a face full of character and piercing eyes that, while often playful, didn't miss much. A useful trait as he was also Duncan's Watcher – an agent of an ancient mortal organization that secretly kept tabs on the comings and goings, killings and dyings of Immortals like Duncan. Only in Joe's case the "secretly" part had been kicked to the curb when his subject had found him out a couple years back. Oddly, this hadn't shaken up the paradigm much. Whatever else he was, and that could fill a book or two, Joe was also a damn good friend.

"Yeah, yeah – I've heard that song before", Duncan had replied through a lopsided grin. "Play something else". Joe had instead removed the guitar strap from around his neck and reverently lowered the instrument to lean against his stool, making sure that it rested safely on the inside of its case.

"Ha! I wish _your_ guys would play something other than elbows! That three-pointer in the second half was ours!" Joe's voice adopted a bluesman's drawl as he'd smiled his way through the next accusation. "I bet the ref's underwear is Razorback red!"

"First off, they're not my guys", Duncan had replied, punctuating his remark with a mock lecturing finger in Joe's face. "I just bet by the numbers. Your problem is you bet with your heart, not your head."

"Yeah, well, Ole Miss'll come back strong soon enough – they're just in a dry spell, that's all".

"I hear a lot of talk, I don't see any action," the Immortal had observed, leaning his arm none-too-subtly on the bar's cash register. Joe had sighed heavily. Grimacing and making a show of searching all of his pockets he'd eventually produced a worn billfold and slapped a twenty down on the table beside him.

"Take it, you pirate – and I mean that literally – I'll have it back before the season's out!"

"What makes you think I'll bet you again?" Duncan had said casually, his hand clawing into a shallow wooden bowl of Beer Nuts.

"C'mon, Mac, you wouldn't begrudge a guy a chance to win back his money; there's got to be something in…Clan MacLeod honor about that, right?"

Duncan had responded with a long, and mostly fictional, list of things that were not covered by Scottish clan code, improvising increasingly bawdy details that soon had the two men howling with laughter. If the Immortal were to be honest, and that was second nature for Duncan, he would have to admit that his talks with Joe had become something he cherished. The Watcher's easy-going, self-possessed style had made conversation with him as comfortable and familiar as an old pair of slippers. Rarely had Duncan grown so fond of anyone, mortal or Immortal, in such a short amount of time.

The knowledge that Joe would all too quickly grow old and die, while not something that Duncan allowed himself to dwell upon, held a certain bittersweet fascination for the Immortal. In all his long life Duncan had never experienced that _kind_ of loss. To hide his immortality he'd been forced to pull up roots time and again before anyone could notice that he wasn't aging, and while that meant saying a thousand goodbyes in any number of ways – sometimes to peoples faces, sometimes only in his heart – he'd quite simply never known any mortal for more than a dozen years or so, save only his adopted parents and clans-folk. That Joe knew of his nature was a rare, if sometimes awkward, gift. At least Duncan would never have to run away from him or fake his own death – that latter option had become damn near impossible in the Information Age.

As their laughter had threatened to subside into a companionable silence Dawson had steered the conversation in a new direction.

"What is it with you, Mac – you've looked like the cat who swallowed the canary from the moment you walked in here; you can't tell me that's on account'a twenty bucks!"

"I don't know what you're talking about", Duncan had replied around a mouthful of salty snacks.

"The hell you don't!" Dawson had considered the Immortal thoughtfully for a moment. "…that's not a 'some_thing_' look, it's a 'some_one_' look. It can't be Amanda – her perpetual holiday tour hit Brussels last week and they've still got some champagne and shiny things left." This had earned a warning look from the Scotsman.

"Now that's not fair. …Not entirely".

"Well then, who?"

"Somebody…who taught me everything I know about Scottish clan code". This had gotten a rise out of Dawson's eyebrows.

"Waaitaminnit – Connor? He's coming to Seacouver ?!"

Bingo.

Duncan's grin had been all the answer the Watcher needed.

"That's FANTASTIC!" he'd enthused, with an excitement that had almost rocked Duncan back on his heels.

"Well…yeah", Duncan had answered, a bit thrown. "I can't wait to catch up with him. Why are _you_ so excited?" Dawson had hastily downed the remains of his Miller High Life – it had been a long night – and begun making his way to the back room.

"Our guys lost traction on him four months ago", he'd called over his shoulder. "Our best guesses put him somewhere between Honduras and Bolivia – _I'm_ gonna get me a gold star for this!"

Duncan had watched Joe recede with no little astonishment. "…Elbows or no elbows - _that's_ cheating", he'd muttered to himself.

Back in the present, Duncan's feet carried him through Seacouver's market district, still smiling at the exchange. Dawson was a character, all right. And Connor – he'd be a sight for sore eyes. It had been over four years since his mentor had drifted off on his own path, just after the Slan business. He'd receive a letter every now and again – always very brief, often biting, funny or cryptic. Once, Duncan got a postcard from Amsterdam with a night scene of the red light district. On the back were the words "not thinking of you…"

Presently Duncan arrived at DeSalvo's Gym and his loft above it. After buying the business and residence some two and a half years ago from martial artist and Gulf War vet Charlie DeSalvo he'd decided to keep the dojo's name, and now with Charlie gone – another mortal, all too soon – Duncan considered it something of a monument to his friend. Dust in the wind. As a business it wasn't exactly a golden goose. Memberships had been pretty flat for a while now and Duncan sometimes wondered if the place would pay for itself by his 450th birthday. Thank heavens for shrewd, very long-term investments and seven off-shore accounts.

Grabbing the rough railing, and noticing that it needed a coat of paint or two, Duncan pulled himself up the steps that led to the dojo's entrance.

Retrieving his mail from the lock-box in the entrance hall, Duncan passed through the gym itself. Nodding a greeting to the two dedicated members sparring on the center mat, he sorted the bills from the junk mail from the Items of Genuine Interest. Hmm…a disc from AOL promised 5,000 free minutes of internet access with membership. Stacked with other similar discs he'd been sent, they should just about take the pronounced wobble out of his 19th century rococo table upstairs. A bright yellow envelope addressing him as "resident" suggested that he could make all of his dreams come true simply by working out of his home. He'd sort of been doing that for the past decade or so; it hadn't made junk mail go away.

While fishing his elevator key out of an inside coat pocket he turned over a small, nondescript white envelope in his hands. No return address. His name was inscribed in an elegant, feminine cursive, clearly the fruits of a classical education. Without thinking, Duncan found himself sniffing the envelope. He silently chided himself – did he really expect to catch a waft of perfume deposited by a mysterious admirer? "Now I _know_ I'm getting old", he muttered. Lumping the mail together in one hand he raised the hefty grating of the private freight elevator that would take him up to his apartment and stepped inside. Upon exiting into his spacious, tastefully appointed flat he grabbed an apple from the kitchen counter and dropped the pile of mail into the now empty fruit basket. He wouldn't give the mysterious envelope another thought until it was too late.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

It was snowing only slightly as Salera, now using the surname "Neves", dropped the second coin into the slot and listened as the catch released. Opening the small door with one gloved hand she reached in with the other and extracted a copy of USA Today. Before letting the door slam shut a sudden whim caused her to retrieve an additional copy. Smiling at a thrill as petty as the larceny she straightened up and continued on her way, not breaking her unhurried stride as she dropped the surplus newspaper into a trash bin. She allowed herself to stroll almost absently as her eyes played over the various headlines of her new acquisition. There was the usual mix of celebrity fluff, consumer advertisements and "serious" news. And mortals did indeed take a great number of things seriously. Her earlier smile returned and grew as she read about a possible civil war sparking up in the Balkans, rioting coalminers in north-west China and a novel little fellow in Wyoming who beat four cab drivers to death with a frozen salami while dressed as President Taft. "…just can't make this stuff up", she breathed to herself.

By the time she'd finished scanning the interview with O.J. Simpson's fifth grade teacher she was nearly at her destination. Folding the paper into a neat rectangle she casually studied the old industrial building that housed the dojo owned by Duncan Macleod. She guessed that it was about 110 feet distant and her guesses were more often right than not. She also guessed that her quarry was presently somewhere inside those rough-hewn walls. Of course it was an educated guess. The spies she'd sent ahead of her several weeks earlier had kept a close yet artfully subtle eye on the comings and goings of Mr. Macleod. The Scotsman was, of course, smart enough to avoid too predictable a pattern in his habits and movements but the odds were good that, just now, he was right where she wanted him.

The woman took a step forward – just under 108 feet now. Nothing. A gust of wind herded some litter across the lonely, snow-kissed alley. Another step – 106 feet. It could be tricky business gauging the radius of a particular Immortal's sphere of engagement, the "Buzz" as the Watchers called it. By any name the sensation was a near-impossible to describe cool tingle of flesh and heightening of senses that alerted one Immortal to the proximity of another, and it was functionally impossible to ignore. The effect's onset could rouse one from the deepest sleep and cut through all but the most excessive of stupors. It's radius of effect was largely dependent upon both of the Immortals in play and their experience levels, relative to each other. A true champion who'd amassed a great many Quickenings would actually begin to project a somewhat wider "Buzz" zone than a novice. Rather than give the champion an advantage, however, this would only really serve to give early warning to greener rivals. "Self-passive" was the term Salera used to describe the effect – herald, not spy.

98 feet.

Salera had done a great deal of research into all aspects of Immortal life and death, designing and carrying out dozens of experiments on herself and assorted volunteers (though, in truth, some were more voluntary than others). With an I.Q. as measured by the Stanford-Binet test of 191 she'd always been a smart one; intensely curious and quick to adapt to new circumstances even as a child. Often this had been an asset. In 1838 when she was 31 years old it had killed her. Salera had been less than cautious while stealing a closer look at an electric dynamo which had been part of a traveling sideshow passing through Lisbon. Her first taste of lightning. When a member of the sideshow's company – an Immortal strongman called Octavius but really named Ned – had dug her out of her grave forty-eight hours later, her curiosity about her startling new circumstance had quickly overpowered her shock.

Ned, quite taken with her, had agreed to leave the company and become her mentor. They'd traveled across much of Europe supporting themselves with odd jobs – there was always work for someone of Ned's great size and strength – and he'd taught her all that he knew about fighting, about _surviving_, as an Immortal. And Salera had learned deeply, never faltering in her zealous pursuit of knowledge, absorbing like a blotter all that the strongman had to give. And when he had taught her everything he could she'd killed him.

88 feet.

It wasn't that she'd returned _none_ of Ned's affections – she was actually quite fond of him, and genuinely grateful for all that he'd done for her. But she liked the idea of this Game – _really_ liked it – and was eager to get into it, up to her elbows and more, regardless of how it stained her. The thought of losing this second virginity by besting such a mighty champion as Ned and using nothing but her wits to do it, well, that was more than irresistible to her – it was compulsory. She didn't kill him in his sleep, didn't get him drunk or put him at any other grossly unfair disadvantage – she didn't even play off his affection for her. She'd simply left an anonymous note of challenge in the pocket of a shirt he'd hung out to dry, written with her left hand so as to disguise its authorship. It invited Ned to a midnight meeting in a small churchyard behind a local chapel. When he'd told her about the note, she'd feigned concern, for in all their months together no other Immortal had crossed their paths. He'd told her that this was the way of their world and that she should be strong and not worry – he took every challenge seriously and would exercise due caution. She'd said that she was glad of that and meant it.

79 feet.

After Ned had left to meet his challenger Salera had hidden her face and hair behind a long woven scarf, pulled on a heavy brown cloak, took up her scimitar and stole out into the darkness. The pounding of her heart had filled her as she'd rushed to keep their appointment. She'd felt not happy, but giddy with excitement and terror, and would later remember nothing of her mad dash except the point at which she'd caught sight of the chapel. Ned was right where she'd expected him to be, of course, in the center of the humble cemetery; his single-edged axe at rest against a slate marker for there was no danger here on Holy Ground. He'd called out something in his rich baritone upon seeing her approach, his name perhaps, but the words failed against the rush of blood in her ears. She'd walked straight up to him – she could scarcely believe her own audacity and seemed almost to watch her actions from a distance, from a dream – and with one practiced move sliced halfway through his neck.

That wasn't at all how she'd imagined things going. The grisly failure of her strike banished her sense of euphoria. Suddenly the coldness of the night air and the weight of her weapon, her cloak and her very limbs fell upon her with a terrible immediacy. A thick, hot spray of her teacher's blood had soaked her scarf and steam rose before her eyes. Ned had stumbled back, eyes wide with disbelief, and groped for his weapon, but his movements were uncontrolled and he quickly fell to the ground, the signals from his brain sabotaged by the trauma. Rooted by shock she'd simply stared into the anguished face of the one who had pulled her from the grave, his great limbs wracked with ugly spasms until pins and needles told her she'd stopped breathing.

It was with a different kind of detachment than her previous euphoria that she'd stepped over to Ned's side, raised her sword and finished the job. She never knew whether or not he'd recognized her weapon or her eyes. She hoped he hadn't. Salera took some comfort in the fact that Ned had often overlooked details. Details like the stains on her frock that last evening – mud from the field and blood from her quickly healed palms that had been worked raw as she'd labored to build the cemetery while Ned had been earning their living. She'd stolen the irregularly cut blank slates from a mason's slag pile and prayed that a near-full moon wouldn't reveal her sleight of hand. At least she hadn't needed to construct the vacant chapel nearby. Neither did she need to dismantle the mock churchyard – her first Quickening knocked every marker flat. One alone did she raise back up again, but marked it only with a kiss.

At about 70 feet it occurred.

She thrilled for a moment in the exhilarating sensation, rather like a shark catching the feint, coppery scent of distant blood, and smiled at the knowledge that it wasn't hers alone. After several seconds the Venetian blinds masking a third story window parted slightly and she felt the measured gaze of unseen eyes rake over her. Salera reached up one gloved hand and doffed her wool-knit hat in salute. She then turned merrily on her heel and melted into the welcoming darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

Joe logged off, slid the keyboard back under the small counter and turned a rueful eye on Duncan. "Sorry, Mac; none of our people are aware of any more of you guys operating in this area just now".

"Are you sure?" Duncan's calm, casual tones didn't even raise an echo from the walls of the empty bar.

"Well", Joe replied as he rubbed a hand over his tired face, "of the 137 Immortals we're currently actively tracking exactly 137 are accounted for as of today. Are you sure this isn't a newbie?" Duncan shook his head immediately.

"She felt old".

"Yeah – how old?"

"…Old enough".

Joe pushed himself to his feet and, with the help of his cane, made his way over to a recent addition to the bar's décor – a small goldfish bowl and its two brightly colored occupants. Retrieving a canister from the shelf below he began to feed Burns and Allen.

"Well, I don't see how we could've missed her – our people are pretty sharp. Any Immortal who's been kicking around for as long as you seem to think would have to be both very smart and _very_ lucky to have gone unnoticed."

A wry smirk twisted Duncan's lip despite himself. "That does _not_ make me feel better, Joe". The taller and much older man took several steps away from the bar and absently considered a framed black and white photograph of the 1923 Mardi Gras parade through the streets of New Orleans.

"What really bothers me is how she contacted me. It was no accident – she knew exactly where I was".

"She's been stalking you".

"Yes, but she deliberately tipped her hand. No introduction, no direct challenge…just a…a _peek-a-boo_".

"…A 'peek-a-boo'..?" Despite the gravity of the topic Joe couldn't keep the grin out of his voice.

Duncan steam-rolled over it. "She's a game player, Joe, and I really dislike game players".

"So, what are you going to do?"

"What I always do – be careful and keep my head low". The Immortal grabbed his coat and headed for the exit.

"You're gonna track her down!" Joe said, pointing an accusing finger.

"Yeah," Duncan replied, "that too".


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

His name was Carl Henderson, or at least it was this time, and he was in town on business. He had just arrived in Seacouver the day before and, while too old a hand at his job to feel excited, did enjoy the anticipation of a successfully closed deal. He had been at his occupation for over twenty years now – longer than most in his line of work – and had risen to a rather elect height within its ranks. He was what is known as a "fixer", among other things. True professional assassins could be difficult to contact and expensive as all hell, but for those who had both the need and the means they often represented a perfect solution to some of life's problems. "Carl" had been quietly and effectively plying his trade for those twenty odd years and was never at a loss for interested parties. Middle management hoodlums, syndicate high-rollers, corporate power brokers, over-zealous politicos – all these and more had both fallen before his cross-hairs and paid him to pull the trigger.

He was good at what he did – very good.

Taking no more than five or six contracts a year, he planned to retire at fifty a quite comfortable man. For now, however, he sat on the end of his rented bed at the Marcombe-Royale Hotel (his two favorite words being "plus expenses") and considered. He had allowed his mind to wander freely for a bit, to relax and clear it, but now he had brought it to a focus on the job at hand. Spread on the floor before him were two separate maps of the city, aerial stills of very specific locations, floor plans of several select buildings including this one and a single photograph of the target. It was a frame taken from the record of a very fortunate security camera. He had the entire eight second sequence on video as well but this frame he had singled out. He'd cropped the subject and processed the image up to 300% scale, running a number of filters to squeeze the most out of the pixels. It was the resulting print that now held his attention.

His gaze caressed, almost tenderly, the black, white and grainy image of the dark-haired woman. It wasn't much but, when combined with other resources at his disposal, it would be enough. The woman in the picture was a killer, at least according to his client. Fair enough – he wasn't in a position to throw stones on that score. Any similarities between himself and his target rapidly faded, however, when one took method into account. To hear his client tell it, the unassuming woman he was looking at had cut off his wife's head with a heavy edged weapon. Cute. The husband certainly didn't think so, and to prove it he was paying Carl $150,000, plus expenses, to serve justice more quickly and surely than the courts ever would.

Apparently, the grisly murder had put a period at the end of a whirlwind romance that had seen the couple married just three weeks after they'd met. If Carl hadn't taken pains to keep their conversation professional and brief the client would've gone on at great, exhaustive length about his bride – her beauty, her poise, and an alluringly enigmatic…_something_ that promised a lifetime of secrets to explore. Well, that promise was broken to pieces by a nut with a sword. Crazy world. Carl wasn't being paid to make sense of it.

If his hard-won information was correct this particular nut, Salera Neves, was a recent and rather successful entrant into the cutthroat (ha) world of processed snack foods. Make that _very_ recent – Carl could find no record of Ms. Neves prior to 1993. In August of that year she had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, bought out several small western European bakery concerns and quickly turned them into an impressive little conglomerate, shipping preservative-laden dainties throughout the continent.

And she cut people's heads off.

The scarcity of information on his target, coupled with the killing, had led Carl to briefly wonder if she too was, in fact, an assassin. Decapitation, however, was simply not in the toolbox of his trade, and he'd quickly abandoned the notion. "Whatever you are…", Carl breathed into the quiet of the room, a wry and humorless smile cracking his weathered face, "…you are not long for this world". His hard eyes moved to a chestnut brown vinyl golf bag in the corner. In it were six Henrikson irons of various wedges, two fairway woods, a Trevino driver with a DuraBalance shaft and a custom-modified modular M-16A2 single-shot to semi-automatic recoilless rifle with a Hawk-I laser-ready scope and electronic push-button trigger.

Carl Henderson was not a golfer, and his hunter's mind traced patient, thoughtful circles around and around the thought of his prey – tighter, tighter and tighter still.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

It had apparently been just what it had seemed – a simple tease and not a direct invitation. Duncan had carefully examined the area his mysterious caller had occupied and had traced to the best of his ability the route she'd taken on departure, all without finding the least clue to the woman's identity, origin or intent. A note would've been nice. Ever tenacious, the imposing Immortal allowed his hunt to proceed in a widening spiral, asking questions of no one, relying on senses and instinct alone, all the while being painfully aware that he may well be behaving and thinking just as his visitor wanted him to.

In an overcrowded city Duncan MacLeod was a man apart, made separate from others by circumstances even he couldn't entirely understand. Alone he proceeded down another litter-strewn alleyway, this one between a garishly painted liquor store and a warehouse marked only by gang tags. In the background of his senses lived, as always, the comforting presence of his ivory-handled katana, pressed snugly to his armpit, hidden away under his coat. He knew without bitterness that it was the only friend that would always be there. It would never leave him, never challenge him, never grow old and die on him. It was one of the precious few constants in his long life.

Truly, he couldn't even count himself a constant.

Over the past four centuries he had changed a good deal, if not to the eye. He'd gone from being a brash, impetuous, selfish and illiterate scoundrel who, under normal circumstances, would probably have found death in an alley much like this one at the hands of one slightly less drunk than himself, to a man who allowed himself to think more straightly and feel more deeply than most men would have the courage to. He was truly a product of his times. Over a century ago he'd come to the conclusion that a human being was incapable of attaining true maturity, a genuine adulthood, in anything under 300 years. So, tragically, all mortals died children. Now he'd look back on that 300 year old Duncan and see what a child he'd been. With more experience Duncan had come to believe that true maturity was something perpetually beyond the grasp of Man – any man. And so Immortals died children too. As Darius, perhaps the rare exception who proved the rule, once told Duncan "a man who lives eighty years has a lifetime – when you live for centuries all you really have are moments".

One thing that hadn't changed about him in all that time, however, was his irritation at not having the ball in his court. While he didn't approach the Game as a hunter – the days when he'd gone _looking_ for trouble were safely behind him – he still preferred acting to reacting. In his current situation the choice had been denied him. He also much preferred an honest, open challenge to all this cloak and dagger business, but that too had been withheld.

Game players.

Then again, he reflected as he stared into the brick wall that dead-ended both the alley and his search, the honest, open challenges often held their own particular pains…

_1961, Chicago, IL_

Duncan MacLeod hadn't been in the windy city since 1927 and the change was striking. Physically it actually wasn't as different as he'd expected it to be, what with a construction boom still riding out the waning energies of post-war excess. No, this alteration had been more subtle and yet more startling than mere glass and steel skyscrapers writing progress large in the city's skyline. It took Duncan a full two days to put his finger firmly on the nature of the change – Chicago had become boring. This wasn't to say that he'd longed for the danger and instability of prohibition-era gangland, where an over-tasked police force had often been asked to shoot first and leave the questions to the _Tribune_. Not exactly. But at the same time it was undeniable that Capone's Chicago, with its population of villains, heroes and flappers-with-moxie had a snap and crackle to it that just couldn't be matched by beatnik disaffection and garden variety political corruption. All of which was rather beside the point as Duncan had been in town on business, a pursuit which preferred stability – or at least a marketable sort of chaos.

As a favor to a publisher friend out west Duncan had undertaken a fact-finding trip to the City of Big Shoulders to determine the viability of starting up a newspaper here. Rather than actually going toe to toe with the venerable _Tribune_ Duncan, with his newspaperman's experience, was to establish some business contacts in the area and ascertain what sorts of niche markets were being underserved by local media. And eat some deep dish pizza.

It was while he'd been returning to his hotel from a pizza parlor on Ohio Street one evening that Duncan encountered El Borrador. The word "encountered" quite underplays the singular drama of the meeting. That Immortals are impervious to all diseases excepting those of the mind and of habit is well known among their own kind and well documented among the Watcher community, and Duncan had seen his share of madmen. El Borrador, on the other hand, was just a bit confused. And perhaps burdened with an inflated opinion of himself. Then there was the alcohol – yes, the alcohol certainly didn't help things.

Killed in 1958 at the age of twenty two when he'd fallen down a cement causeway with nothing but half a quart of whiskey to cushion his landing, Enrique Escobar had the makings of a sad statistic. When he came back to life to find his head facing about thirty degrees further clockwise than he could ever remember achieving, he did the sensible thing and screamed until he was hoarse. With no help to be had and nothing left to lose he had then proceeded to wrench his head back to where an open casket service was at least an option. It was at that moment, when he immediately felt not only better but fantastic, that Enrique decided that he was a superhero. He had grown up on comic books, drive-in movies and dimestore pulp fiction and had always felt that a greater purpose awaited him than simply sweeping up Mr. Turdle's Pet Shop at a buck ten an hour. With no mentor, no guide for all that an Immortal life meant, Enrique was left to work it out for himself.

He was not at all good at this.

Following the inspiration provided by his library of four-color heroes, Enrique fashioned a costume of sorts out of mix and match Army/Navy surplus, protective sports gear, a pair of old aviator goggles and paint. He looked…well, pretty much exactly as you imagine. Adopting the name "El Borrador" or "The Eraser" – which is what he imagined doing to villainy in all its hated forms – completed his persona. In Enrique's defense, he did once manage to scare away a mugger (and his victim) by jumping into their midst from the hood of a car, and his brief "investigation" of a pawn shop burglary left enough evidence intact to allow an eventual arrest. It was only through an encounter with another Immortal, a year before Duncan came to town, that he'd realized that his purpose must be of greater import than staunching petty street crime.

So it was that the Immortal Dwayne Gillespie's arrival at Mr. Turdle's accomplished three things. It opened Enrique's eyes to the realities of his new life and situation, made the Watchers aware of El Borrador and allowed Mr. Gillespie to present an adorable guinea pig to his young niece Rachel, getting him back in his step-sister's good graces after that disastrous picnic where he'd casually told the child that he'd been adopted "too".

Armed with a greater sense of his circumstance and vulnerability – gleaned from the one-page note that Dwayne had sent him after wisely deducing that the young man was too harmless to challenge, too weird to mentor – Enrique's alter ego now kept vigil exclusively for villains who triggered a Buzz. He basically hung out on fire escapes and drank too much beer. …and wore a two and a quarter inch wide, half-inch thick aluminum collar that matched his codpiece.

So it was that Duncan, full of pizza, met El Borrador, full of Schlitz on a damp Chicago evening. Neither was at his very best. A second after the Buzz took him, Duncan heard something fall gracelessly into an open refuse bin about 60 feet down the alley he'd been passing, followed by what might have been cursing. Checking for foot traffic, Duncan entered the alleyway and cautiously approached the dumpster, his hands gripping ivory.

"I am Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod", he'd announced very clearly. The Scotsman had always valued formal introductions, especially in matters of gravity.

"DEMONIO!", El Borrador had called out, gamely wrenching himself from the container to meet his adversary. "Me llamo es El Borrador!" he'd declared, straining his posture on unsteady legs.

At first blush, Duncan had understandably assumed that much of El Borrador's costume was simply trash that had clung to him from the bin. His mind reflexively switched to Spanish.

"…'The Eraser'?" he'd asked, trying to make sense of things. "I…is that a codpiece?"

El Borrador, with a bravado built of hops and barley, and his sense of discretion left in his other pants, produced two ten inch bayonets – Army/Navy surplus – from inside his flak jacket and ran full-tilt at Duncan. After all of his long waiting for a true villain to appear, he was in no mood for subtlety.

"Tonight the Eraser sends you back to hell!"

Were he not so startled by El Borrador's appearance and the rashness of his charge Duncan would almost certainly have deflected the attack without hurting the young man. As it was, the vigilante was driven into the alley's wall with enough momentum to break his nose. For Enrique's part, had his sense of pain not been dulled by alcohol and adrenalin he might have noticed this nuisance injury and done something about it in time. Unfortunately, it quickly healed that way, canted sharply to the left. Duncan, not imagining that his challenger's appearance could've been any more bizarre, had been unable to stifle a wince as El Borrador, having collected his weapons from where they'd clattered at his feet, turned to face him.

"You…" The younger man had then paused for a few breaths, clearly winded, before starting again. "…You are fast, demon – but as you see, your blade can never find my neck." He'd underscored the point by tapping the butt end of one bayonet on his collar and smiling, if a bit uncertainly.

Duncan had frowned at the novelty of being openly and aggressively challenged by a coward. The very thought of an Immortal hiding behind a protective collar was, well, unthinkable. And that nose – Duncan briefly wondered if "quasi-comical" was a word, and if it would translate to Spanish.

"You can't wear something like that!" he'd said instead. "Where's your honor – your sense of self-respect?!" Duncan had begun to suspect that this whole situation was a ridiculous waste of time. To make matters worse, that 12 inch deep dish artichoke and anchovy pie just wasn't sitting right – there are _reasons_ you didn't go into battle on a full stomach.

"El Borrador puts civic duty _above_ self-respect!" spat the vigilante as he'd adjusted his shoulder pads. Some of the reckless bravado seemed at least to have evaporated, as he'd chosen merely to glare venomously at the Highlander rather than risk another charge. Duncan, having seen this as a chance to defuse tensions further, took a step back and lowered his sword into a relaxed, reverse grip.

"Listen…El Borrador, I didn't come here looking for a fight; and I don't think either of us…_whuuh_", the burp had taken the Scotsman by surprise. "…excuse me. Neither of us wants to ruin this beautiful evening with bloodshed. I'm going to leave you to…to whatever it was you were doing, and when you're serious enough to take off the training wheels and have a fair fight maybe we'll meet again".

"…You smell of anchovies, demon".

"Yes, well…touché I suppose". Duncan had then turned toward the alley's mouth and the welcoming sounds of Chicago traffic.

"You…so you are just going to run from my challenge?" The vigilante's voice had betrayed an awkward mixture of indignation and relief. Duncan stopped and turned back to look into the face of his adversary. Finally deciding to listen to his better angels he'd approached El Borrador with his hands held palms out so as to adopt as unthreatening an air as possible.

"Well, I would like to do you one favor before I escape. You'll thank me later…maybe". Enrique hadn't even time to blink as Duncan's right hook had made sudden, violent acquaintance with his nose.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

_Clack…clack…_ Through slitted cat's eyes Salera watched as the two Baoding balls orbited in her left palm. She was usually quite adept at keeping them from touching as they rotated, but irritation robbed focus. Her computer station here in the Seacouver Public Library displayed a progress bar two thirds full. Salera loved software, hated computers. She had never been a patient woman and, with the dawn of the PC had discovered whole new continents of aggravation. "Why bother inventing something if it's going to be this sodding slow!" she'd said on more than three occasions. What she was waiting for now was for a C++ network-mapping 'sploit she'd written to finish sussing out the vulnerabilities in the computer network of a midsize bank in Stockholm. As soon as she found a way in and ran their client/contact list she'd have a tread-stone to her actual target – a very old organization who charmingly thought that Swiss bank accounts were safe.

In the entire history of the Watchers only nine Immortals had ever become aware of the group's existence. Of those nine Salera stood alone as the only one to have independently predicted the existence of such an organization through a process of logical hypothesis. Proceeding from that assumption, she'd been able to establish multi-source, indirect evidence of the group, identify and eliminate her own Watcher in a perfectly plausible accident and gain her first limited access to their files, all in the space of six weeks. This was in the 1920s when all records were hard-copy. At her ex-Watcher's flat, and before a clean team had arrived from the organization's local branch office, she'd managed to destroy all recent notes pertaining to her and had committed a good deal more information to memory before slipping away to reinvent herself.

One of the things that had struck her about the Watchers was how much the group resembled its quarry. Like the Immortals whom it so deeply concerned itself with, the Watcher organization was itself an entity dressed in shadows. Like they, it had secretly endured for century after century, proved itself adaptable to the changing demands of different eras and yet changed very little itself, save in the adoption of new ways of doing old things. And, of course, there was language. From the cult's original Latin name, Spectos (or sometimes Fautor – the Favored) they had moved on to Waeccendas in the Anglo-Saxon through Wachis in the time of Chaucer before assuming their current nom de plume in the year 1600.

A small chime alerted Salera to the happy fact that that her Nmap program had finally completed its work. Her eyes moved rapidly over the results, weighing and dismissing several too-obvious vulnerabilities in her target's armor before selecting the point of entry that balanced rapid access with low risk of detection nicely. Her fingers began to fly.

The Watchers name for themselves was not their only indulgence in linguistic morphology. Labels for different Immortal types had, in fact, undergone an update right at the advent of the twentieth century. Agents of the organization made a practice of dropping all players of the Game into a neat 3x3 grid that indicated both age and level of experience. The three age categories – Nascent, Elder and Ancient – were still the same as when the grid was adopted as an informal tool in the fourteenth century, and described Immortals of under 200 years of age, over 200 but still Anno Domini, and those lucky few who dated back to before the birth of Christ. Roughly two thirds of all Immortals, at any given time, fell into the first category. The remaining 33%, for all practical purposes, fell into the second. Only the very barest of fractions – four individuals according to the most recent update of the dual-encrypted online Watcher database – were considered Ancient, and two of _those_ were listed as "unconfirmed".

The grid's other vector, denoting experience level, enjoyed a much less lopsided distribution of contestants. Here, Immortals were divided into those who'd taken zero to four Quickenings, five to twenty-four and, lastly, twenty-five and up. The original labels, Novitiate, Acolyte and Sage, had become Novice, Intermediate and Champion in 1901. This may seem a small thing, but to an organization as beholden to tradition as were the Watchers it represented the result of months of heated debate.

"…_Finally!_" Salera said just a bit too loudly as the bank's client/contact list appeared on her screen. An elderly gentleman across the room shot her a stern look and put a finger to his lips. Salera would have ignored him had she noticed him at all. A few more minutes work running passive trace programs and back-hacking Watcher network root files rewarded her with a photo of her current dancing partner, Duncan Macleod, and the over five hundred pages of notes, Watcher entries, and academic writing attached to him. She'd been here before, by other means, but had come back to look beyond the facts and figures. Specifically, Salera was interested in first-hand Watcher accounts of the Scotsman's victories. Watchers evidenced an annoyingly wide range of writing styles, from the numbingly academic to poetry fit to pour over flapjacks, but an admirably high percentage of them were actually damn good reporters. Some regularly took pains to record not just action but _behavior_, with their own measured comments on their subject's perceived emotional state. These were the entries she was hunting for, and for very practical reasons. Salera needed to know how Duncan was likely to act when he defeated her.

The ways in which Immortals fought were more varied than seashells. The numerous schools of swordplay, along with countless sub-disciplines and variants, combined with individual adaptation and, finally, choice of weapon would produce variety enough; but having the luxury of studying and adapting numerous styles for centuries gave birth to a breathtaking depth.

Snowflakes just didn't begin to cover it.

Despite all of that diversity of form and style, however, Salera's research had shown that some 91% of victorious Immortals reacted to their victories in a strikingly similar way. She needed to know whether Duncan MacLeod fell into that metric.

Salera's eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. Pushing a diskette into the computer, she began copying a series of screenshots for later viewing – she had places to be.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven – On the Disposal of the Fallen_

This is what Darius the Goth had to say concerning the remains of defeated Immortals:

"Despite the requirements of our contest, we are all of us a brotherhood. The battle done, it is an imperative of conscience to lay down all hatreds and animosities we may have held against our fallen brother, our honored sister gone to rest. Our bond compels us, whenever possible, to do rightfully by their remains and see them to their grave in dignity."

This is what Gregor the Bestial had to say on the same subject:

"Once the fruit of the Quickening is torn from the rind, feed the latter to the dogs."

Despite such a wide range of approaches to the matter, most Immortals recognize the practical need for cleaning up after a contest. It was a careless victor who left behind a beheaded body for subsequent discovery. In previous ages it was a more simple matter to hide the bifurcated remains of an Immortal from the eyes of either wayfarers or whatever served as a local constabulary (in those earlier days "the Media" was, of course, never a concern. Neither were forensic labs). A simple, shallow grave a dozen paces from a road and, if inclined, a whispered prayer would often do. If rushed and less than sympathetic, a couple of kicks and a handful of leaves could manage. Better was the gift of a nearby swamp or cliff's edge – indeed many planned encounters were arranged close by to such friendly geography as an added boon to the victor. Drain any body of water from Northern Europe to South East Asia and you were sure to find a number of otherwise flawless skeletons whose skulls were only nearby at best.

Only very rarely did a fallen Immortal get what most people would consider a proper funeral. Many would agree that Holy Ground at that point, while not too little to hope for, was at least too late to be of much earthly good.

Duncan MacLeod had attended many scores of funerals, reflecting numerous traditions, in his long, well-traveled life. Those of fellow Immortals he could count on one hand, and he expected no ceremony to mark his own passing if his journey should ever find an end.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight_

Through his safety glasses Duncan watched as flakes of rust and old paint accumulated on the drop cloths he'd anchored around the dojo's entrance. He was careful to wear a respirator too – his Immortal body would heal from any damage, but tiny bits of metal in the lungs could last a lifetime. His wire brush continued to scour debris from the building's neglected railings as the early morning sun mounted a cloudless, autumn sky. An unusually warm forecast for this time of year had encouraged him to get this chore over and done with; that his mentor and kinsman Connor would be climbing these steps in a few days had, of course, nothing to do with it.

Connor's first visit to the dojo would bring its share of awkwardness, through no fault of the older Immortal. Duncan himself wasn't certain _why_ he'd never told his kinsman about Watchers in general or Joe in particular. Part of him – the student whose once-youthful awe at the legend of Connor MacLeod had never entirely faded – probably believed that his mentor must certainly know about the organization. For so long, Connor had seemed to know everything. Duncan had first heard the name breathed in hushed tones when he himself was a very little boy in Glenfinnan – a fireside tale of a man who would not die, passed down as the clan's most enduring legend. Duncan's parents never spoke of it, however. The fact that Connor had been a foundling like Duncan was never omitted from the tales, and superstition hung about the Highland clans like fog upon the moor. There were no Connors in the MacLeod clan as Duncan was growing up, nor had there been for generations – a curse was believed to be upon the name. Duncan supposed that his own resurrection from death and subsequent shunning by all save his adopted mother had kept the clan Duncan-free for many years, and doomed any foundlings to rejection at best. Money was said to be the root of all evil, but Duncan suspected that simple, thoughtless fear had done more damage.

As for the matter at hand, Joe had expressed no direct interest in meeting Connor, just an eagerness to get the Immortal back on the grid. Duncan winced as he conjured a scene of their introduction.

"So, Connor, this is Joe Dawson. He's been professionally stalking me since 1979, an agent of a four-thousand year old clique of mortal peeping-toms from whom we have no secrets. You'll be happy to know that they've got over seven thousand entries on you and everyone you've ever interacted with, along with countless candid photos and untold hours of film and videotape! Your dick size was first recorded in 1690 by your washer-woman, whom you thought to be blind. He also owns a bar."

Duncan brought his forehead down smartly against the railing and listened to the deep, resonate tone the ironwork produced.

He opened his eyes to the growing sound of arguing voices. Approaching from the north down Nelson Street were two male figures - a smallish mustachioed man of about sixty retreating from a younger bear of a fellow with murder in his eyes. The smaller man held his hands up defensively as he spoke.

"Now listen to me, listen to me! I have the money - I just don't have my hands on it! Simon's holding; he's bringing the full amount tomorrow! A day! Tell Bailey I just need one stinkin' day!" The bigger man grabbed him by the shirt collar and pushed him to the ground, right on top of one of Duncan's carefully laid tarps.

"Bailey thinks you can settle up just as well as a gimp. You got a favorite leg, Sammy?" He was about to take a threatening step forward when a Scotsman got in his way.

"Hrrif ooboysav apoblumeyefrnt..." Duncan began.

"...Whazzat?" the bear interrupted. Duncan pulled the respirator off his face and tried again.

"I said, if you boys have a problem, my front porch isn't the place to solve it. This gentleman clearly wants to do the right thing – why don't you move on to someone more your size and I'll talk to him for you?" The large man said nothing for a moment and then smiled in an odd way that Duncan did not like at all. He suddenly felt a sharp pain in his calf as "Sammy" injected him with something that sent liquid cold coursing through his veins. In his long lifetime Duncan had been drugged plenty and never cared for it. As the black shroud began to creep in from the edges of his vision, however, he found himself smiling despite himself at having fallen for their simple ploy. Looking back at the smaller man he managed to get out "...left leg your favorite, eh?" before collapsing amid the rust.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Nine_

In the outskirts of Seacouver's East End, in a smart little bungalow enrobed in climbing ivy, in a wine cellar that had never held spirits, a woman was pulling a katana from her midsection. Salera had rented the house for two weeks – more time than she'd need, she was certain – and had spent a minimum of forty-five minutes each evening doing grievous, if temporary, harm to herself in the cellar.

Like Duncan, she knew the value of plastic tarps.

Those minutes weren't all blood and gore, of course – a good deal of it was given over to meditation and the odd coming-back-to-life when things got out of hand. Ideally, Salera wouldn't die during an exercise; the system-shock of resurrection and the accompanying disorientation were not an efficient use of time. She'd often been irritated by the common misconception among Watchers that coming back to life was a quite lovely thing for an Immortal, when in reality it was only slightly less traumatic than getting killed! Two things would always happen at once – the heart would slam itself back to life violently against the breastbone with a massive charge of bio-electrical energy that left one's fingertips buzzing for minutes while the diaphragm spasmed all the way to the pelvic floor, or so it always seemed, wrenching into the lungs enough air to darken a dozen birthday cakes. The oh-so-lucky Immortal was now dealing with an oxygen-starved brain and a body gone quite cold from lack of circulation.

The overall impression was that of getting kicked out of the womb by an electric mule at 30,000 feet…while drunk. _C'est la vie_.

Salera had not died this evening, at least not yet, and as she watched the familiar tiny sparkles of electricity dance across her abdomen, knitting together layers of muscle and skin tissue in a twinkling, she really wished she could just go to sleep.

"Ten more minutes", she said to no one in particular and began to reset the machine for a diagonal slash across…oh, across the back this time.

Salera had invented the machine. It took the form of a five foot tall collection of pulleys, counterweights and adjustable vice grips for holding and manipulating a variety of edged weapons, all attached to a simple control board. There were settings for angle, force and even a delayed-action timer. She'd realized early on that the wounds she could naturally inflict upon herself were limited by angle, range and her own nerve. An assistant was out of the question – there was no one Salera could trust in this pursuit. She trusted the machine. She had also come to trust her own pain.

Pain, Salera knew, was not something that happened in the stomach or indeed anywhere in any organ or tissue. Rather, it was an ally and sometimes enemy that lived entirely in the mind. Salera, being on exceptionally good terms with her mind, had long ago resolved to meet intimately and often with pain in order to ensure that she had a good working relationship with it, and that this partner would never be her master. Understanding the psychological utility of objectifying the abstract, Salera had carefully built up an image of pain in her mind. It took the form of a young boy - slight of build and dark of eyes and hair, very much like herself. She called her pain Salero. "He" could be petulant, demanding, could whine in a quiet tone or produce exquisite, piercing screeches. But Salero was ultimately obedient to her will, provided that her focus and sense of balance had not left her.

Her many, regular meetings with Salero had ultimately enabled her to compartmentalize the child even in times of great stress, but it was an ability that demanded constant maintenance. Aside from pain management she had, of course, adopted other tools to help secure some advantages in the Game. She'd become a mistress of left-handed dueling, employed a buckler as an off-hand weapon and fought exclusively with a flamberge-bladed Flemish rapier. The waves in the blade's edges, while inflicting no greater damage than a straight-edged weapon, looked intimidating and channeled a disconcerting vibration into an opponent's sword while parrying.

Such measures were, Salera knew, a game of degrees. In combination with dedicated practice, however, as well as the development of an asymmetrical fencing style that incorporated much in the way of misdirection and an insistence on knowing both herself and her enemy, she had done quite well for one so comparatively young. One hundred and sixty five Quickenings in 158 years of playing the Game as a cautious and deliberate hunter across many lean years before the Gathering. A delicious bit of poetic happenstance revealed itself to her in the Watcher files on Duncan MacLeod. He too had one hundred and sixty five heads to his credit.

So - an even match one might think. Unfortunately, MacLeod was very, very good at what he did. Technically, he was probably one of the very best duelists in the Game. His sheer breadth and depth of martial skill, with or without a blade, and his rare ability to successfully employ a Japanese katana in even European-styled combat had won him all those heads despite the fact that he almost never went looking for conquests. Even factoring in his tendency to defer to women and to give them greater quarter in battle – he was, after all, as much a product of his time as anyone – there was little rational hope that Salera could best him in single combat.

Very well - she would be beaten by him then. But she would not lose.

MacLeod, her research showed, did indeed behave as most Immortals did when they had delivered the penultimate killing strike that sent their opponent to ground and set up the coup de grace - he relaxed.

Impalements, deep slices through the midsection, catastrophic organ damage - all such injuries took the fight out of a combatant by incapacitating them with exquisite pain, the kind that only circulatory shock or death could relieve. And shock took up to a minute or more to set in - an eternity in a duel. Because of this, and because of the great sense of relief the victor enjoyed, Immortals almost always let down their guard before taking the Quickening. They paced. They preened. Sometimes they even engaged the fallen in arch conversation. Stupid.

Well, Salera was not stupid, and when MacLeod had delivered his death-strike, at a time in the duel of her choosing and with Salero safely boxed away in the orderly vaults of her perception, she would show the Highlander the value of her genius.

The machine moved. She did not scream as her spine and shoulder blade were laid bare – but she did call it a night.


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter Ten_

Duncan was looking at a wall – a wood-paneled wall with pictures hung at an odd angle.

"S'funny", he slurred. His cheek was pressed against a joining wall, this one made of concrete, it seemed. His eyes had been half-open and staring for some time before he came to, so it was difficult to know exactly when these walls had gone from being elements of a presumably boring dream to genuine architecture – as the difference between the two was negligible, any distinction was purely academic. The stupor began to lift as his Immortal constitution busied itself with dismissing the effects of the drug. Duncan lifted his head off what he now correctly identified as the floor and looked around as best as his situation afforded. The bite of plastic zip-ties into wrist and ankle served to remind him that those dojo railings would have to wait for their first coat of paint.

Duncan leveraged his body around to get a look at the other side of the partly-finished basement, for that's clearly what the room was, and found himself looking at "Sammy" and "The Bear". His kidnappers were watching him from folding chairs a few feet away, arms identically folded, identical scowls gracing their silent faces. Both were chewing gum.

Duncan decided to take a cheerful tack, if only for the contrast.

"Hiya, fellas!" the Scotsman said brightly. "I love what you've done with the place". Glancing around, more for strategic information than idle appraisal, Duncan saw that very little _had_ been done with the place. The frame of a partially-installed drop ceiling seemed apologetic for its inability to mask rusting water pipes and electrical trunks. The floor, for its part, boasted a too-small and threadbare stretch of carpeting the color of aerosol cheese which made Duncan grateful for the bare concrete. The cheap, wood-toned paneling was marred by water damage and noticeably warped in several places, while a battered sofa with suspicious stains and a missing cushion made the choice of folding chairs an easy one.

And then there were the two low-rent thugs who smelled of Juicy Fruit.

"You some sorta comedian?" the Bear said, somehow getting it out without letting up on the gum.

"No, actually I'm in appraisals – I don't suppose you guys would consider parting with that antique sofa? The state's constructing an artificial reef in Puget Sound and that particular piece would be ideal for housing crustaceans and mollusks". This actually got a chuckle out of the Bear, who sobered up under a withering glare from Sammy. The older, smaller man then turned his attention to Duncan.

"Listen up, Zorro – you're here because our employer has a follow-up message for you to show that she's serious, and wanted to be sure that you paid proper attention."

"You want some gum?" the Bear interrupted, addressing Duncan and proffering a bright yellow packet. Sammy's eyes widened and he struck the larger man's arm violently out of the way.

"What are you _doing_?!"

"I was…"

"Shut UP! We are professionals, are we not?! I mean, seriously – what are you, _twelve_?! GUM?! I don't even know why _I'm_ chewing this shit!" To underscore his observation, Sammy spat his wad out viciously. It bounced off the concrete and landed on the carpet where it would stay for seven years before being consumed in a fire set by an arsonist who recognized bad décor when he saw it. The older hoodlum took a deep breath and rubbed his temples as he continued to Duncan.

"Look, if you don't follow the instructions you received earlier, to the letter, your little social club for ne'er-do-wells will never see that money again. Be a _good_ boy, on the other hand and our employer has seen to it that they'll not only recover those funds, but that they'll receive _twice_ the amount." Sammy fumbled in his shirt pocket. "To show that her intentions are good I've been authorized to give you this safe deposit box key – number and identifying marks removed – which will give you access to said monies when your business is concluded. She will give you all necessary information at your meeting. At the conclusion of this conversation you will be transported to the Seacouver Port Authority Shuttle Bus Terminal and released. Do you have any questions?

"…Zorro..?"

"Well, I guess this concludes that". Sammy produced a heavy, mean-looking taser from a jacket pocket and aimed it at the bound Duncan. Clearly, these two had been instructed to take no chances with him.

"Wait! …Why not just drop me back at my place..?"

Sammy and the Bear looked at each other for a moment and then back at MacLeod.

"It's not on our way", Sammy said and pulled the trigger.

Of all the many advantages to be had and enjoyed by Immortals, easily the most recent was an immunity to tasers. Oh, there was no immunity to the pain they delivered, or the wracking spasm, but the small amount of voltage they delivered – relative to a Quickening – was incapable of producing muscular weakness or loss of consciousness in any member of their little club, once death had been tasted.

Duncan faked it anyway.

Sammy rose from his chair, took a few steps over to Duncan's still form and prodded him with one toe of his PayLess Doc Not-ens. Satisfied that the Scotsman was out, he called for Bear, whose name turned out to be Keith, and the two of them hefted Duncan's bound form up and bore him through a doorway that led to a dingy garage. The place smelled of the expected petroleum and rubber mixed with…something else familiar. Duncan cautiously opened one eye by half and spied crates and crates of Juicy Fruit chewing gum lining one garage wall.

Deposited none-too-gently into the backseat of a pea-green Chrysler Cordoba – plate starting with "FE" Duncan glimpsed – and with the safe deposit box key crammed into his shirt pocket, the Scotsman made ready to commit their route to memory. This was a little game that Duncan had gotten quite good at, though he'd have preferred to be sitting up. A lot of it was about timing – counting off the seconds between turnings while slowing down or pausing one's count to approximate the car's motion – and the rest was just a decent sense of direction. As it turned out, he needn't have bothered. His lovely wood-paneled dungeon was one right turn and two blocks from the Port Authority.

"Get ready to cut 'im loose", directed Sammy, whose real name hadn't come up. They had fallen into the shadow of the bus terminal's parking garage and, after making a number of brisk turnings, the car had begun at last to slow. Now, a Cordoba was a two-door coupe which meant that Keith would have to exit the car and pull his seat forward to extract Duncan. That's why it was always better to do your kidnappings in a sedan. The vehicle rolled to a stop.

Having pulled the seat forward Keith leaned into the back and, after determining to his satisfaction that their guest was still out, quickly cut through the plastic zip ties that held Duncan secure – first the ankles, then the wrists. The moment his wrists were free the Highlander exploded vertically, slamming Keith hard into the Cordoba's hardtop and drawing a surprised yelp from ol' Sammy. Duncan quickly followed through with a quick snake-fist strike to Keith's throat and let him drop into the rear footwell, clutching at his bruised trachea. The Immortal quickly pivoted up and around, placing his knee and all of his weight onto Keith's shoulder to pin him in place while he grabbed Sammy, who was attempting to exit the vehicle, by the waist of his pants and hauled him back hard into the driver's seat. Duncan then struck an open-handed blow to the miscreant's solar plexus, driving the wind from his lungs. A quick search of Sammy's jacket rewarded MacLeod with the taser he'd so recently been on the wrong end of.

"Shut the door", the Scotsman said in a no-nonsense growl and a gasping Sammy complied. Looking around, Duncan saw that they were idling in a deserted section of the garage, lit by the flickering sodium light of a nearby stairwell. After a few seconds of near silence he continued in a more conversational tone. "Well, where are you boys off to?"

"Wha…whad'ya mean?" said Sammy, his breath coming ragged.

"Well", Duncan began, "you fellows weren't shy about showing me your faces during a kidnapping and here we are at the Seacouver Port Authority Shuttle Bus Terminal". He leaned in closer to Sammy's ear, leveraging more weight onto a grunting Keith in the process. "They've got shuttles to the _airport_ from here as well as to the commercial docks. Now, you two don't seem like the 'slow boat to China' types to me", he commented, smiling broadly and jouncing up and down on Keith's shoulder.

"…hovahs kosher", a clearly pained Keith mumbled from the footwell.

"What was that, Keith?" Duncan replied smoothly, as if only just remembering that the burly thug was there at all.

"We were goin' to Nova Scotia! Now lay offa me!"

"Shaddup, idiot!" Sammy commanded, if weakly.

"Nova Scotia?" asked Macleod "No, no, that won't do at all – this time of year it's _freezing_. You fellows aren't even dressed for it!"

"We got bags inna trunk! We meetin' a guy in New Glasgow who's gonna set us up with new IDs."

"Idiot! Shut UP, idiot!"

Duncan bent down a bit toward the captive Keith and asked with some earnestness "They made a _New_ Glasgow?"

"Listen!" Sammy interjected. "We coulda killed you back there! We…we were just about to let you go. C'mon, be…", and here his face gamely attempted to simulate a warm, friend-winning smile, "…be a pal, would'ja?" A single drop of sweat found its unfortunate way into his mustache.

"Oh, a _pal!_" responded Duncan with a sarcasm he reserved for either good friends whom he had at a playful disadvantage or annoying chuckleheads like these. "I should've realized you two were looking to make friends, what with the drugging and shocking and unlawful imprisonment."

"…I offered you gum."

"Look," said MacLeod to Sammy, all business again, "I'll let you two go. But if I ever see you in Seacouver again, well…I've got connections with the local PD – pray that I go after you through them."

"Sure, sure!"

"And I want to know what you were talking about back in the basement – I'm guessing that by 'social club for ne'er-do-wells' you were talking about the DeSalvo Urban Youth Initiative?" Sammy nodded.

The D.U.Y.I. was an inner-city sports and education program started and endowed by MacLeod shortly after Charlie DeSalvo's murder. In addition to organizing after-school athletics as an alternative to gang membership, the Initiative awarded a partial scholarship each year to a young man or woman who had shown initiative themselves. To be honest, however, once he'd gotten it in motion Duncan hadn't really paid a great deal of attention to the program, content to let the chairwoman handle the day-to-day operation. He had attended the first scholarship ceremony last year, and intended to do so again but…

"What did you mean about 'not seeing the money again'? And who the hell is this employer of yours?!"

"She, she said she'd already contacted you! Said she'd told you 'bout the money she hacked from their account and, and that she invited you to a meeting…to come to an agreement!"

"That doesn't make any sense! The account was federally insured – any money stolen would've been covered anyway; what aren't you telling me?!" Duncan's grip on Sammy's shirt tightened and he felt some chest hairs pull away at the roots.

"Ah, ow! Take it easy! The job wasn't a direct hack. She said she went through the charity's own servers - made it look like a legit transfer to an untouchable off-shore, then wiped the evidence. It's gonna be a big 'he said/she said' and the bank's got better lawyers. I only know this 'cause she likes to brag a little - I don't know anything else!"

Duncan pinned him with a stare for a few moments.

"How about you, Keith - do you know anything else?" he said, not taking his dark eyes off Sammy.

"Uh...she sounded a lot like Amalia Rodrigues".

"...The Fado singer?" asked Duncan, taken aback. Of all the possible combinations of words that might have come out the big thug's mouth these somehow seemed the least likely.

"Yeah. She didn't sing or nothin' but her voice had that accent."

"What the hell's 'fado'?" This from Sammy.

"A Portuguese musical style", Duncan supplied absently, trying to recall if he'd heard of any Immortal Portuguese women headhunting in the States. Here was a situation where he could understand the appeal of having access to Watcher files. Such access had helped keep his Immortal friend Methos safely out of the Game for years, but Duncan couldn't help but think of it as cheating. Still...who was this woman?! He decided to pursue the direct approach.

"Who is your employer?! Where can I find her?!"

"Ha! We're the last ones to ask! She was too smart to let us know anything that could lead back to her. Idiot and I were already set to leave the country for business reasons when we were tapped for today's job by a cold-call from this woman three days ago - dunno how she got his number. There were two follow-up calls outlining the particulars of the job, and we received the key and our payment in a dead-drop." It all came out so glib that Duncan had to conclude it was the truth.

"You mentioned a meeting - where?!"

"I - don't - know!", Sammy answered, giving each word separate emphasis. "Like I said, she told us she'd already contacted you with that information; our job was to lean on you to make sure you took it serious." MacLeod chewed over all this for several moments until Keith finally spoke up.

"Can we go now?"

The Immortal reluctantly concluded that, whoever she was, she was too smart to have left any blood in these stones. "Yeah - take your bags and get the hell out of here". He smoothly slid out the passenger-side door, taser at the ready.

"You're taking the car", said Sammy. It wasn't a question.

"Yup. I've got a feeling it belongs to me as much as it does to you, am I right?" Sammy grumbled and popped the trunk. Keith, pulling himself gingerly out of the car couldn't keep the whine from his tone as he spoke.

"How're we supposed to get where we're going?"

Duncan had rounded the front of the Cordoba and was about to slide behind the wheel.

"You're at a bus terminal, Sparky, I'm sure something will come up!" He hit the gas as soon as he heard the trunk slam to. He caught a vanishing snippet of conversation between his two kidnappers as he drove away.

"Fado? I never even heard of it - how d'you even know about...whassername?"

"I've got some culture".

"Culture? Ha! Not in my experience you don't".

"...We never really talk".


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter Eleven_

An hour later, Duncan hung up the phone, ending a brief and awkward conversation with Margaret Allsworth, the Chairwoman of the DeSalvo Urban Youth Initiative. An extremely conscientious manager, she'd been so embarrassed by the loss of funds that she hadn't wanted to contact him until there was some good news to report. Unfortunately, such news would not be forthcoming through any means that Ms. Allsworth could employ. On the brighter side, only the scholarship account had been affected – day-to-day operating expenses were untouched. Small favors.

Of greater interest was a voicemail message from Joe, saying that he was on his way over with news that he couldn't discuss over the phone. His cryptic assertion that he might have some "answers to your current problem" piqued Duncan's interest. While he had no desire to gain any tactical advantage over an opponent through his friendship with Joe, information that led to a fair and open meeting – or at least a workable lead – was certainly welcome.

He put a pot of coffee on.

When Joe made his way in some minutes later he was wiping his free hand on his slacks.

"Your railings look like shit", he commented.

"Let's not", MacLeod answered, smiling tightly. He offered Joe a steaming mug after the Watcher had settled into a somewhat battered chair in the dojo's office. Duncan perched on the corner of the desk and, arms folded, regarded his guest with a friendly sort of suspicion. Joe, seemingly in no particular hurry, made a show of blowing some of the heat off his brew before taking an extended draught. He then, using a napkin as a coaster, placed the mug down on the desk and adjusted its position until the napkin was at right angles to the desk's edge. Duncan cleared his throat pointedly. Joe looked up and beamed.

"Who's your favorite Watcher?" he said.

"Jimmy Horton", Duncan snapped back, poker-faced. Joe's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline as a guffaw escaped his throat.

"You know, it's funny you should mention him", Joe said. "He's…sorta the reason I'm here today".

James Horton had been a Watcher, and a good one for many years. He had also been the worst, most destructive traitor the organization had ever known. In addition to these distinctions he had been Joe's brother-in law. All of these "had beens" result from his death at the hands of Duncan some two years prior. While still in the employ of the Watchers, Horton had begun to secretly carry out what he'd believed was a holy mission – the systematic destruction of all Immortals. Believing them to be an abomination whose very existence usurped mortal man's rightful place, Horton had used his access to Watcher intelligence to mount a campaign of Immortal genocide with the help of a kill-squad of like-minded Watchers and mercenaries he'd discretely recruited along the way. Overall, it represented the single greatest failure of operational discipline the Watchers had ever known, and going forward it added a word to their lexicon that they never thought they'd need, as invisible as they'd always been: counterintelligence.

Duncan exhaled what may have been a sigh or simple impatience.

"What's Horton got to do with this? Forgive me, Joe, but this time we know he's dead".

"Yes he is...but in the vaults of Watcher HQ his legacy lives on".

"...I'm listening", the Scotsman said. Joe leaned forward a bit in his chair and rubbed his hands together.

"You're gonna love this. When we shut down James and his little club of psychopaths, our guys were able to recover a large amount of research material and intelligence, much of it new. Seems the Hunters were creatures of habit in their intel-gathering, only now they considered sharing with the broader Watcher community something of an option. They seemed to like nothing more than…reacquiring Immortals who'd gone dark - that way they could kill invisibly and better avoid calling attention to their actions. Now, a lot of this material still hasn't been vetted for inclusion in our primary database...but I took a peek!" He took another gulp of coffee before continuing.

"About seventy years ago we lost track of an Immortal named Salera Braga. As a fighter she wasn't a terribly tough cookie, but she was very clever and cautious. She knew how to pick her battles, and probably could've taught Machiavelli a thing or two about manipulation. One day in Madrid back in '25 her Watcher, a greeny on his first field assignment, took a header down a flight of stairs. Toll the bells. By the time our guys got a reclamation crew into his flat to recover his notes there was nothing on Salera less than two weeks stale."

"Now, European OverWatch at the time concluded that he was just a piss-poor record keeper or lazy or both. They regarded the guy as a big investment but a small loss and dispatched a couple of pros to reacquire Salera. They never did. With a trail getting close to a month cold the old protocols snapped into place – a transcontinental bulletin was issued with Saleras's description and…well, she was sorta forgotten about."

"Until our Hunter 'friends' went looking" Duncan interjected.

"Yeah…apparently so." Joe let out a sigh of his own as he slumped back into the chair. "I don't know what to say, Mac. I guess I gotta give the devils their due – they scooped us! Back in '94 one of Horton's guys zeroed in on a European businesswoman named Salera Neves. Strong circumstantial evidence and a striking physical likeness convinced the Hunters that she was, in fact, the missing Immortal. She was pretty high on their 'to-do' list by the time we scuttled their operation." Joe leaned forward again, a smile brightening his weathered face. "I did a little hacking – guess who rented a house out in the East End three days ago." MacLeod found himself smiling back.

"This…missing Immortal – was she Portuguese?"

"Originally from Lisbon, pal".

Duncan rose from his perch, took Joe's head in his hands and planted a loud kiss on his forehead before reaching for his coat.

"Hey, watch it!" Joe complained, "I've only got eyes for older _women_!"

"Got an address?" asked Duncan as he tucked his katana out of sight. Joe handed him a slip of paper, but wouldn't let go right away. His expression turned grave.

"I'm serious, Mac – watch it. If this _is_ the same Salera she's smart. _Spooky_ smart."

"Well, let's hope she's also rational. Maybe I can convince her it's not in her best interests to fight me". He winked at Joe as he took the paper. "After all, I could use a smart friend!" The Highlander strode through the gym and stole out into the now-chill Seacouver afternoon.

It was little more than five minutes later, while Joe was washing out the coffeepot, that he suddenly felt a presence at his elbow and heard a quiet, oddly-accented voice ask "Is Duncan MacLeod here?" Joe turned with a start and found himself staring into the piercing eyes of a legend.


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter Twelve – Salera's Letter_

En garde!

Let me introduce myself.

My name is Salera.

* * *

><p>Having denuded the scholarship account that one promising urchin is working so hard for, I will hold safe the proceeds and, indeed, will happily restore them so long as you accept my challenge. This is a serious invitation to fair combat, not a trap.<p>

Usually I don't take such steps to insure a meeting, but I've heard that you can be a difficult man to draw out. Consider this my way of getting a foot in the door.

Rest assured, if I should win our contest I'll return the money to your organization. If _you_ win, I've arranged for it to be returned at twice the amount, so don't be meek.

Sometime very soon you will have a glimpse of me outside your window.

Two days after that at noontime you will meet me at the southern foot of Ladner Dam or your sweet charity will forfeit the money.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter Thirteen_

It was just past 5 o'clock when Duncan parked his '64 Thunderbird two blocks from the address on Elmhurst Parkway that Joe had given him, having left the Cordoba in the hands of the Seacouver police, and begun his approach on foot. He was by no means so proud as to think that his return to the car was guaranteed. The centuries having taught him the value of pragmatism, Duncan had long ago made arrangements in the event of his unexpected death. Nice arrangements. The kind that would see his accumulated holdings liquidated for the benefit of several charitable organizations, with some monies and items bequeathed to select people in his life. His friend and protégé Richie Ryan, for example, had always admired the Thunderbird. He would receive a handsome collection of Japanese watercolors and a 5x8 glossy photo of the car (the vehicle to be sold at auction with the proceeds going to the Ronald McDonald House in Richie's name).

Some Immortals made…not-nice arrangements in the event of their demise. Duncan recalled being riveted by a tale told by his Immortal friend Amanda one early morning in bed (she was a good friend). It was an account, of somewhat dubious veracity, of a friend-of-a-friend who'd had the misfortune of defeating a rather spiteful Immortal possessed of an unhealthy interest in high explosives. He'd apparently been wearing about fifteen pounds of the stuff under his shirt, wired to cook off if his heart should stop. It did and this friend of Amanda's friend was made to endure a Quickening while suffering from burns to the third degree, shock-ruptured organs…and tinnitus. Sometimes it just didn't pay to cut someone's head off.

No one pillow-talked quite like Amanda.

Immortal culture included more than it's fair share of "urban-legends" like that one. The reason so many of them were believed was that boogeymen like the Kurgan had indeed walked the earth. Duncan, for his part, put very little stock in most friend-of-a-friend tales, Immortal or otherwise; they were usually too interesting to be true, like the letters sent in to some men's magazines.

The Highlander had crossed over to the opposite side of the street as he'd drawn close to the address in question. At any moment he would know if this traveling businesswoman was of a certain vintage, and soon after if she was the one who'd sniped him the other day. To his left the sidewalk gave way to an embankment that sloped gently down to a greenway where empty basketball and tennis courts were kept safe behind tall stretches of chain-link. The afternoon sun painted growing shadows of nearby East End high-rises across this borderland where urban and suburban met, and all else was suffused with golden light – a pretty day.

"Pretty uncertain" MacLeod quipped wryly to himself.

His eye was now on the residence in question. It was set back quite a bit from the street, its generous front yard encircled by a stone wall just a bit taller than him. Through an iron gate set in the front he could make out the low, one story dwelling, hugged by ivy and dappled in shadow. He began to draw level with…

The Buzz washed over him with all the familiarity of an old sweater.

Almost immediately, the woman who'd teased him outside the dojo, now dressed in dark pleated khakis and a white, button-up collared shirt tied in a knot at her waist, exited the bungalow's front door and strode, untroubled, toward the gate. Duncan was immediately impressed that she didn't look at all surprised to see him. Pushing the gate open with a sharp creak of rusted bearings she called to him in a strong voice.

"Well met, Mr. MacLeod!" Damn, but she _did_ sound like Amalia Rodrigues. "You've earned your first 'touché' from me with no blades drawn – I can't possibly complain about your unannounced visit, now can I?" Her smile seemed genuine enough, and there was a playful confidence to her tone that Duncan couldn't quite decide if he liked…or liked a _lot_. Maybe this meeting would go well after all. The woman leaned her arm casually against the gate's frame. "I'm Salera, but clearly you already know that".

Duncan, smiling too, stepped off the curb into a street that hadn't seen a car since his arrival.

"That's alright – I'm a sucker for introductions", he said as he strolled toward her. "So…as _you_ already know, I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod".

He was more striking in person, and up close, Salera thought, and more resourceful than she'd suspected, to have made it to her little house. Truth be told, she'd been put in an unfamiliar position – caught completely off-guard – when she'd felt his approach, not expecting to face the Scotsman until tomorrow, and miles from here. Perhaps she shouldn't have scattered the breadcrumbs that she had, leading to her door. Perhaps, too, it had been a miscalculation to have pushed him with both larceny _and_ kidnapping; but, no – she'd wanted him angry. Anger midwived so many useful qualities in as opponent. Apart from the sloppy recklessness and tunnel-visioned predictability one could expect from any enraged animal, anger in an intelligent enough mind, one informed by a great many years of adversity, often brought self-doubt into the mix, as one recalled previous angers and their bitter fruit.

Well, now all of that carefully cultivated anger was wasted, as the two of them made ridiculous eyes at each other and bantered like schoolchildren. What was he saying?

"…no interest in challenging you, Salera. And keep the money if you like – replacing it won't be a problem, although…perhaps I'll keep it in a mattress this time!" Again that winning smile. Salera decided to cool things off.

"Don't misunderstand my motivations, Mr. MacLeod – the money was simply a worm for the hook. I wanted to be quite certain that you'd meet with me. I'd heard that you could be…reluctant to accept a challenge from a woman".

"…And from whom did you hear that?" asked Duncan a bit stiffly. A sort of seventh sense told him that he wouldn't like the answer.

Salera allowed the slightest of predatory smiles as she lied.

"Amanda." She was rewarded with a visible tensing of muscles in MacLeod's neck.

"You know Amanda". It was almost a question.

"Knew her…once. She spoke quite highly of you – and at length". She had to observe some caution here. Claiming outright that she'd killed the bewitching thief would certainly knock the Scotsman off-balance and restore a healthy measure of anger – _if the lie could be believed_. For all Salera knew, he may have spoken to Amanda earlier today, or at least recently enough to make plain her deceit – since MacLeod knew where she'd been staying he probably also knew how long she'd been here. As was often the case, ambiguity was an ally. Better to switch topics.

"My letter requested a meeting on the grounds beneath Ladner Dam. It seems you read more into it…"

By "grounds" Salera meant "woods". Most Immortals hated fighting in the woods, for very sensible and practical reasons. Salera _loved_ the woods. She had developed much of her asymmetrical fighting style and footwork by training in wooded areas, and took pride in how effectively she'd turned that terrain's minuses into pluses. As she spoke she retreated back into the large, enclosed front yard of the bungalow, tacitly inviting MacLeod to follow.

"I'm going to guess you're just afraid of Poison Oak?" While slipping past the wall she took her back-up rapier from where it had been patiently leaning, just in case. Just the touch of its hilt in the presence of another Immortal sent a thrill of expectation through her, and she had to gently will her pulse to slow. Duncan obligingly took some steps toward her but, having seen Salera take up her blade, stopped before crossing into the yard.

Historically, thresholds held a curious place in Immortal culture. Well before MacLeod's time it was a common superstition to wait for a direct invitation from another Immortal before crossing certain boundaries. This had started with houses of worship and burial grounds where, combat being forbidden, counsels or truces were often called. This was one of several aspects of Immortal life that had somehow, through means unknown, been communicated into mortal folklore. Ageless creatures that fell but did not die, that attacked the neck for nourishment and that shunned the light, at least of public exposure if not the sun, were a common element of many cultures, both Eastern and Western. That such creatures of myth were often held to have loins of dust but could "reproduce" by biting was perhaps a sympathetic concession by poets and bards.

That Abraham Stoker was a Watcher (assignment: Sir Henry Irving) was probably coincidence.

Duncan, for his part, wasn't superstitious, just cautious. And a bit confused.

"Letter?"

"…My letter…the letter I sent you – clearly you must have read it". Duncan's bemused and somewhat mopish expression spoke volumes of ignorance. "…You never read it? You never _read_ my letter! How…" Salera interrupted her exclamation, shut her eyes briefly and seemed to count to ten as she closed a door on her own anger. "Never mind".

* * *

><p><strong>E<strong> n garde! (2)

**L** et me introduce myself. (4)

**M** y name is Salera. (4)

* * *

><p><strong>H <strong>aving denuded the scholarship account that one promising urchin is working so hard

for, I will hold safe the proceeds and, indeed, will happily restore them so long as you accept my challenge. This is a serious invitation to fair combat, not a tra** p**.

**U **sually I don't take such steps to insure a meeting, but I've heard that you can be a difficult man to draw out. Consider this my way of getting a foot in the doo** r**.

**R **est assured, if I should win our contest I'll return the money to your organization. If _you_ win, I've arranged for it to be returned at twice the amount, so don't be mee** k**.

**S** ometime very soon you will have a glimpse of me outside your windo** w**.

**T **wo days after that at noontime you will meet me at the southern foot of Ladner Dam or your sweet charity will forfeit the mone** y**.

* * *

><p>As Salera put her questions out of her mind and composed herself the Scotsman was already speaking.<p>

"Look, I'm not going to fight you, Salera – I just came to talk. I understand that you're in the hunt; I respect that, as far as it goes. But, as it happens, I'm already past my quota of heads this year and wouldn't mind holding on to this one". Again the insufferable, damnable smile. "Ah, what the hell", Salera thought to herself.

"I killed Amanda".

"What did you say?!" Duncan's face had gone ashen. "Thank heavens", she thought.

"I came here with her from Brussels and took her pretty head this morning after tea. An efficient little duelist, our Amanda, but slower than she'd liked to think." The slight _senhorita_ raised her rapier in salute to MacLeod. "Don't worry, darling, I can reunite you before supper".

MacLeod, stepping into the walled yard, removed his long coat and flung it aside, his blade flaring to life as it caught the fading sun. Salera, grinning like a Cheshire cat, was instantly upon him with an exploratory thrust to his midsection – more playful than anything else but with a glint of what looked like madness in her eyes. The much taller Immortal turned her blade without moving more than his wrists and circled to his left. He didn't know whether or not to believe Salera's claim but he'd sort that out later – this had just become a challenge that he couldn't walk away from. In all the very many years he'd known Amanda he'd only said "I love you" to her once but he'd meant it. Losing her would…well he didn't know what it would do to him, other than harden him more, darken his world with a cynicism that he'd been remarkably successful at resisting for an Immortal of his age.

Ramirez, Connor's teacher, had once advised the elder MacLeod to avoid emotional attachments, to avoid love. It was both good advice and the blindest sort of folly. After several broken hearts, however, he'd begun to take it. One of the most important lessons Connor ever taught Duncan was one he'd never intended to. There was a great deal to admire in his clansman and Duncan loved him like a brother, but the heaviness of loss – and fear of adding to its weight – had made Connor closed-off and distant, and that emotional isolation had made him strange, if only just a little bit. Duncan saw all of this and had determined not to follow that path, chose instead to keep himself emotionally open and vulnerable.

It had cost him – many times.

While he would encourage himself with Faulkner – "given the choice between the grief and nothing, I would choose grief" – each loss made nothing that much more attractive. None of these thoughts were with Duncan now, as he confronted his foe in the grand Game of their kind. As "emotionally open and vulnerable" as he strove to be, he knew well that passion lost more battles than it won.

After her initial brazenness, Salera had all but strolled to the other side of the front yard, stretching her arm muscles as she went. Her movements were sure, smooth and a just a bit exaggerated, giving the impression of one who'd been somehow confined or at least reserved for too long. Duncan wondered briefly if the extra sway in her hips was meant to be for his benefit as he took up the ground that she'd given, cataloging his surroundings as he went. He watched her pick up a brass buckler, maybe eight inches in diameter, from a small patio table and fit it to her right hand as she turned to face him. The hungry smile she wore betrayed nothing but confidence.

"Are you ready?" she asked lightly.

"…" Duncan deferred as he advanced on Salera, pausing to pull a small garden spade from a window box. He didn't share her smile.

The first blow was his, an accommodating diagonal slash directly across her outstretched buckler that rang like a bell and invited an easy counter thrust. When it came he deftly caught her rapier with the spade and moved in with a vicious head butt that impacted the bridge of Salera's nose and sent her reeling back. Blood flowed freely down her face for a few moments as she smoothly circled around to put the setting sun at her back – she never lost the smile.

"Touché again, Mr. MacLeod – first blood is yours. You're quite a gardener."

"You _are_ aware that Giacomo di Grassi wrote as much about defeating a buckler as he did about defending with one?" Salera gamely tossed the off-hand weapon aside and wiped the blood from her face.

"Not everyone reads Italian".

She sprang across to his left flank leading with the point of her sword, angling to get under his guard. Duncan pivoted on his right foot and swept his katana across and down to deflect the attack. As their steel came together the Buzz washed over them both. Duncan froze, momentarily uncertain as Salera backed toward the bungalow, her eyes wide and fixed on the gate. After a few heartbeats a sandy-haired man in a russet colored duster and holding a metal flask stepped into view, took in the yard and its occupants with a few quick glances and smiled.

"Hi", he said brightly. Of medium build and height somewhat hidden by a slouch, his appearance was unremarkable except for his eyes, which alone seemed terribly old and looked as though they could burn through their lids if closed for too long. He'd almost brought the flask to his lips when he stopped short and gestured instead with it to indicate the scene before him.

"Is this a bad time, perhaps?" he said with an unplaceable accent.

"As a matter of fact", confirmed Salera tightly. Connor was already stepping into the yard – he too held few superstitions – and had shifted his attention to the younger MacLeod with a smile.

"Hello, Duncan".

"Good to see you, Connor". It _was_ good to see him, and Duncan felt his spirits lift and his head clear, despite his fears for Amanda. He didn't know how Connor had come to be here – he suspected Joe – but the welcome presence of his teacher, brother and friend brought with it a strong sense of _esprit de corps_ and somehow made it possible to imagine that everything would turn out alright.

"You really disappoint me Mr. MacLeod" Salera declaimed sourly, ruining the moment. "Ours was to be a private meeting – and a fair contest". Connor fixed her with a hard gaze as if truly noticing her for the first time, but addressed her in a velveteen tone.

"Oh, I won't be any trouble – I'm on vacation! Duncan didn't know I would be here. I'll just take a seat and not get in the way". True to his word, Connor upended a large pail alongside the inner wall, dropped down upon it with a sigh and took a swig from his flask, looking like a somewhat comical derelict.

"And be upon me straight-away if I take your friend's head?" Salera spat. "I'm afraid I'm as far from a fool as you will ever meet!"

"Connor," Duncan began, "perhaps it would be better if you waited at…is that…" the younger MacLeod's nostrils flared, "…is that licorice?" He was rewarded with one of his clansman's odd little laughs.

"Hah, heh! …It's an old spirit from an absent friend. You'd like it Duncan – it's like candy".

"I've been more than patient", interrupted Salera in a low, dangerous tone. She'd had her fill of this raggedy interloper and intended to reestablish equilibrium by his absence right quick. Connor, his smile having repaired to whatever dark place it usually lived, drilled her with a look that made her take a step back despite herself.

"Patient? You haven't even been civil, girl. It's been some time since my kinsman and I have had less than a continent between us. If you are to take his head, brava – but it wouldn't be a rare courtesy to allow me to look into his living eyes first".

"…My house, my rules. Your presence compromises my kill – I won't tolerate that." The elder MacLeod locked eyes with her for a few more moments before breaking into a wide grin.

"You make a good case. How about this…" Connor's eyes and thoughts seemed to draw inward for just a moment before he continued. "I make oath upon the Clan MacLeod and upon the dear memory of my bonnie Heather that I will in no way interfere with your contest…nor take advantage of any weakness of yours in victory". Salera chewed these words over for a few moments before turning to Duncan.

"I trust your word, Mr. MacLeod. Do you trust his?"

"Aye. You could build a kingdom on that oath".

"Very well then", she said brightly, and immediately closed the distance between herself and Duncan, grinning like a mad harlequin. Male duelists, Immortal or no, were often put off-balance by a woman who engaged them with such gleeful zeal. Many of the poor souls labored under quaint notions of womanhood – expectations of softness, unseemly caution or, at best, mere stoicism in battle.

Her Belgian steel sang a pitched duet with MacLeod's Japanese as he blocked her _ballestra_ thrust.

Too many men, and far too many women for that matter, fell into the trap of regarding all daughters of Eve as victims-in-waiting. To face in battle, then, a high-hearted and eager swordswoman, visibly giddy for the fight was somehow disconcerting to the male ego, and did no favors for the more dour female contestants.

Her maneuver had gained her the proximity to deliver a solid kick to Duncan's ribs before receiving the Scotsman's blade with a block of her own.

Salera rarely fought a defensive battle. Delaying contact with her targets until she was ready, until such time as she understood them, meant that she could bring the fight to them with an informed confidence. The more physically overmatched she was – that is, the more likely her foe was to expect a defensive posture from her – the more aggressive she tended to be. This was a measured manipulation of the psychological battlefield, reflecting her knowledge that she was engaged in a contest that was as much chess and poker as it was fencing. Such approaches required no genius – to deny an enemy their expectations and play off their inability to adapt was on page one of "Sun Tsu for Dummies".

A series of quick, advancing thrusts on her part brought no satisfaction, as MacLeod contracted deftly under her expansion until a careless overreach of hers allowed him to, well, it was fast, brutal and left Salera with momentary double-vision and a thumb that wouldn't work right for almost a minute. Soon – sooner than she'd hoped – it would be over. MacLeod's skill was all that she'd expected; his discipline was better. If he was angry at the thought of Amanda being killed, it didn't show in his adaptive, tightly controlled technique. Neither was he deceived by her artful feints and asymmetrical footwork. Nor put off by her left-handed form. She was beginning to suspect that he actually _liked_ the vibration from her flamberge while parrying.

It was time to bait the hook.

Salera bit her tongue hard to rouse her _menino pequeno_, her little boy, and placed a firm hand upon his shoulder. She began to adopt a more defensive posture and, like a batter waiting for just the right pitch, bided her limited time until MacLeod executed a thrust she could use. When it came she performed an _In Quartata_ evasion and followed with a high _riposte_ which came up intentionally short. In a heartbeat it was over. Switching into a reverse grip from the extension of his voided thrust, MacLeod had twisted around and pulled the entire gentle curve of his katana's blade across her stomach, leaving a clean slice three inches deep. He ended his follow-through in a low, stable stance facing away from her and seemingly frozen in place, knowing exactly the wound he'd delivered.

Salera admired the strength of the move's execution, its precision and control. Hell, it was almost an honor to be a part of. Vaguely, she felt the rapier's grip pass through her fingers and fall away. Maybe she'd abandon European swords altogether and immerse herself in the study of _kendo_ – she fancied MacLeod's katana, truly a marvelous weapon. Her knees hit the hard, ornamental tread-stones of the yard, signaling the end of the contest. She ignored the warm flow spilling down her legs, ignored the cold fingers of shock pressing in around her laboring heart, ignored the smell of her own bowels. She paid attention to MacLeod.

Rising to his full height, he turned and took two measured steps in her direction. Those steps revealed to Salera's practiced eye a man at ease, a man confident in his absolute mastery of the situation before him. The look in his dark eyes as he kicked her sword out of reach was one of sadness, yes, but also of relief in a battle well won. Those steps of his brought Duncan MacLeod within her reach.

"It didn't have to be this way", he said. "Tell me you didn't kill Amanda and I'll let you live…for now. Otherwise, tell me where you've laid her body before I finish this – please".

Without wincing, Salera dug sharpened fingernails into her left wrist and, with fierce and practiced effort, tore a six inch slim-line dagger from her forearm. She knew that, having witnessed the discard of one off-hand weapon, most opponents obligingly assumed that no others would rise up to menace them.

The world seemed to go quiet and time stretch itself thin as she drove the weapon's wide, flat blade – slick already with her own blood – deeply into Duncan's vitals from a point just above his groin, and twisted. The pain was quite breathtaking – Salera knew. A wordless and pathetic rasping sound escaped Duncan as his diaphragm spasmed with the shock of sudden agony and Salera, from the corner of her eye, saw the interloper – Connor, was it? – lurch to his feet and just stand there, impotent and dumb. Salera, her "Salero" quite under control within the corridors of her perception, smiled with satisfaction as she quickly rose to her feet despite her own wound and wrapped her fingers around the cunningly carved ivory of the Scotsman's katana.

"I didn't kill Amanda", she breathed.

Duncan, struggling to breathe, looked into her serene eyes and focused all of his available energy on his grip, determined not to lose his sword, his soul – but it was difficult to find strength in fingers he could barely feel. Not quite four seconds had passed since the woman had played this unexpected card, but Duncan had already stopped fighting the pain, letting it wash over him instead as he tried to employ breathing techniques intended to focus his mind and draw chi energy to his core. His vision was tunneled, however, and Salera's face seemed impossibly large and a mile away. Connor's presence was all but lost to him, an indistinct shadow at the edge of the world.

He couldn't feel his sword.

A bouquet of red roses bloomed from Salera's temple, scattering crimson petals across the porch of the bungalow. Breathe in. Her eyes lost their look of confident victory – lost everything – and gaped, unseeing, as she drifted soundlessly to the ground, pulling her dagger with her. Breathe out.

The distant crack of the rifle shot made its way to Duncan and the Highlander allowed his weakened legs to buckle, managed to turn the momentum of his fall into a roll toward the shelter of the encircling wall. The pain was subsiding, he could feel his blood pressure coming back and with clearing eyes Duncan looked down to see his katana, resting sure and true, in the comfort of his grasp.

Little more than a quarter mile away, on the eighth floor of an empty office building, "Carl Henderson" had finished breaking down his M-16. He hadn't a clue as to what had been going on in that yard – didn't care to either. His contract had been successfully concluded and that was enough. When news of the woman's death hit the news media the balance of his payment would be wired to his account. In two hours he'd be boarding a flight to Venezuela where he'd…well, maybe he _would_ take up golf.

Duncan took a second swig from Connor's flask. Oh, but the stuff tasted a lot harsher than it smelled – it made his eyes water but despite everything it was good to share a drink with the only man he called brother.

"I think the shooter's gone", the elder MacLeod rasped.

"Yeah? How do we know that?" Duncan asked. Connor at once stood up and backed into the line of fire, squinting into the last rays of the setting sun. "Connor!" Duncan admonished – sometimes he could swear his mentor had a death wish. After several seconds of nothing but distant birdsong a grinning Connor stepped over and offered a hand to his one-time student.

"C'mon, Duncan, who'd want to shoot us – we're nice people". Adopting a disapproving expression, Duncan nevertheless took Connor's hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. The younger Immortal walked over toward the porch where Salera's body lay rag-dolled on the ground. The small entry wound that had marred the left side of her head had already closed over, leaving only clotting blood behind. The exit wound – well, that would take a little bit longer. Duncan's eyes moved to the bungalow, where a fine spray of blood had marked the white paint of the posts, banisters and stairs with innumerable tiny red dots. It was almost pretty. Far less so was the wall of the house near the far corner where the high-caliber bullet had struck. Surrounding the neat little hole was a splash of red in which ugly curd-like masses of grey material could be seen clinging to the stucco.

Guns. Duncan had carried them on occasion when the situation called for them but had used them only rarely. Beyond his distaste for the sort of damage they did to a body – something he'd seen often and up-close – he regarded them as a too easy, even lazy answer to a sometimes hostile world. One had to be a warrior to wield a sword effectively; absolutely anyone could fire a gun.

A sharp intake of air brought Duncan's attention back to Salera. She began breathing very rapidly, her eyes staring straight up to where the evening's first stars were coming out. Moving over to her, he knelt down and gently took her head in his hands.

"Salera. Salera, can you hear me?" Though he positioned his face directly over hers, her dark eyes looked right through him. Through him and through the stars themselves.


	14. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

Two old men walked down the hard, concrete steps of Seacouver General Hospital's emergency unit. It had been clear for most of the day but rain clouds were massing, driven by a cold, Pacific wind. Against his better judgment Connor had helped Duncan clean up the bungalow as best they could in the half-light of a reluctant moon. After a final polish this morning they'd brought Salera here, still unresponsive. Connor had listened, impressed, as Duncan spun a simple, plausible-sounding story of having come across Salera, apparently passed out, at the gate of her house.

"No, we're not acquainted with the patient".

"No, we've no idea who she is, we were just driving by".

"Yes, my contact information's on my card, should the police have any questions".

In the parking lot, as they picked their way around orange traffic cones protecting fresh asphalt, Connor spoke up.

"Well, you certainly know how to show a boy a good time, Duncan".

"I'm sorry you walked into the middle of all that", the younger Scot replied, clearly chagrinned. "It's not exactly how I wanted to greet you".

"One of the consequences of a Gathering is…we gather. It's difficult to plan for, impossible to plan against. I'm just glad you kept that matinee-idol head of yours where it belongs". Duncan chuckled at that – Connor had always given him grief for his supposed pretty-boy looks, joking that they were, at least, unseemly for a warrior.

"Yeah, well…if it weren't for that sniper…" Duncan started before Connor interrupted him.

"You would have found a way, Duncan. You would have found the strength." He put a hand on his student's shoulder and arrested his gaze. "Don't ever doubt that".

"Thanks, Connor. I won't".

As the two ancient warriors, mighty and deathless, continued searching dumbly for Duncan's T-Bird, the younger Immortal gave voice to something else.

"Do you think she'll ever get her mind back?"

"Difficult to say. I've never seen damage quite like that among our kind", Connor's tone wasn't hopeful. "We can only repair what we have". Duncan nodded in somewhat absent agreement – where the hell was that car.

"…I knew a charming fellow once who'd carelessly lost a hand in battle", Duncan offered. "He never got over it". He paused in his search to look to Connor. "You think I should have taken her head". Connor's expression was unreadable.

"You did what was right for you. You've been your own man for a very long time, Duncan. The only thing I question about you…is why you spend so much time questioning yourself". This brought a smile to Duncan's face.

"Did Ramirez once tell that to you?" he asked.

"Nah – got that one from a fortune cookie". A shared laugh was better than liquor.

"I'll have to keep tabs on her, of course", said Duncan. "It's not as if she can stay in a long-term care facility forever. Well, actually, she _could_ – that's the problem".

Duncan was just about to conclude that the two chuckleheads who'd kidnapped him had taken his car to get even when he caught sight of its sleek black frame. As the two men got in, another uncomfortable thought occurred to Duncan.

"Say, Connor, the guy at the dojo who gave you that address", he said as he turned the engine over, trying to adopt a casual air, "did he say anything else to you?"

"No. Should he have?"

"Ah, no. Ha! No I suppose he really shouldn't have at that. His name's Joe. Joe Dawson. He's a good friend".

"He seemed like a nice guy. While you're out he watches the place?"

"Yeah…about that…"

End


End file.
